Be careful what you do during January

Barbara Presnell

Published: Thursday, January 19, 2012 at 1:32 p.m.

Last Modified: Thursday, January 19, 2012 at 1:32 p.m.

It's January, the after-month. We're broke, we're back to regular work, we're spending a lot of time indoors reading books and watching movies, waiting for snow that won't come. It's 60 degrees outside. Jonquils are popping up in the front yard, and robins are flocking to the bare tree limbs in the back. It's a confusing time, a mixed-up season.

So when I found the cake recipe with the unusual ingredients, it seemed like the perfect dessert to take to my Saturday night dinner group. And when, in fine print at the bottom, I read, "If you want to spice it up even more, add ------," I said, "Bingo. That's what I'm making."

Last time I made a dessert for this group was back in the fall when I'd gathered a fresh crop of rich, pulpy persimmons and tried out another new recipe: persimmon cupcakes. Even though we're in persimmon country, I've learned there are still a few Southerners out there who turn their noses up at the very word. Add to that group the non-Southerners who don't know a persimmon from a grapefruit, and you have a recipe for unpopularity.

The persimmon cupcakes were a big hit, though, and no wonder: They were fluffy, rich in that orangey fall flavor and iced with cream cheese.

But this was different. This was to be a dark chocolate cake, everybody's favorite no matter their upbringing, rich with real cocoa and butter, sugar, flour and vanilla.

And sauerkraut. Not just a taste of sauerkraut, either, but an entire cup, pureed to mush.

I don't like sauerkraut, never have. Not since Lindley Park School in the early 1960s when it appeared every Tuesday in the school cafeteria on a plate beside weird little hot dogs called sausages. I remained a skinny child because of things like sauerkraut and Vienna sausages.

So, what in the world came over me to make a dark chocolate cake, full of cocoa and butter, sugar, flour and vanilla, and add to it something that still hits my olfactory glands and taste buds with horror?

It's January, remember. We do such things.

Because my blender is on its last blade, it took what seemed like a full hour to puree that sauerkraut. While it whirred and whirled and smoked, a sauery odor drifted from the blender and filled the kitchen. "It won't be so strong once I mix it in," I told myself, pinching my nose.

Meanwhile, the rick dark other stuff glistened in the mixing bowl. Once I added the kraut to the mixture, the glistening brown turned lumpyish and dull. One of my greatest pleasures of cake baking is licking the beaters. "OK," I said, licking. "It's not that bad."

For good measure, before I put it in the oven to bake, I shook in the final suggested "spice it up" ingredient: cayenne pepper.

An hour later, my house smelled like the Lindley Park School cafeteria.

"Can't you smell it?" I asked my husband. "No," he replied.

We decided not to tell our friends of the secret ingredient until after they'd eaten it, sort of like in "The Help." I'd just received the Christmas package from my German pen pal that very afternoon, so I suggested a descriptive name: Dark German Chocolate Bundt Cake Surprise.

"Whatever," said my husband.

I sprinkled snowy white confectioner's sugar on top of the cake for good measure. And off we went, our little sauerkraut and cayenne pepper cake beautifully displayed on a blue plate and snuggled into a cake carrier.

After a scrumptious dinner of chicken, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole and salad, we sliced pieces of cake and dolloped vanilla ice cream beside it. It reeked of sauerkraut. If smells were clouds, my head would have been encircled in this milky krauty fog, so strong I wasn't sure I'd be able to eat my one slice. Thank goodness for ice cream on the side.

Nobody guessed — or tasted — the cayenne pepper, though I did notice beads of sweat breaking out on my husband's forehead.

The secret ingredient revealed, conversation turned to other things. Nobody really cared. Shortly all plates were empty, every crumb of every slice of Dark German Chocolate Bundt Cake Surprise consumed.

Except by me. "Didn't you think the sauerkraut was way too strong?" I asked my husband on the way home.

"It tasted like chocolate cake to me," he said.

We opened the door to the overwhelmingly pungent smell of sauerkraut, and I was 10 years old again, rounding the corner to the school cafeteria, and suddenly stopping when the unmistakable odor hit my nostrils. Oh, no. It's Tuesday.

Now, when I so much as look at the leftover cake sitting on the counter, my nose begins to itch, and I'm sitting at the long Formica table beside my best friend, Nancy, and the teacher is saying, "Eat, Barbara."

The joke's on me. Everybody else loved it. I can't bear to look at it. What was I thinking?

Let this be your warning: beware the January doldrums. You may end up doing things you seriously regret.

Barbara Presnell is a poet and teacher of writing who lives in Lexington. Contact her at www.barbarapresnell.com.

<p>It's January, the after-month. We're broke, we're back to regular work, we're spending a lot of time indoors reading books and watching movies, waiting for snow that won't come. It's 60 degrees outside. Jonquils are popping up in the front yard, and robins are flocking to the bare tree limbs in the back. It's a confusing time, a mixed-up season. </p><p>So when I found the cake recipe with the unusual ingredients, it seemed like the perfect dessert to take to my Saturday night dinner group. And when, in fine print at the bottom, I read, "If you want to spice it up even more, add ------," I said, "Bingo. That's what I'm making."</p><p>Last time I made a dessert for this group was back in the fall when I'd gathered a fresh crop of rich, pulpy persimmons and tried out another new recipe: persimmon cupcakes. Even though we're in persimmon country, I've learned there are still a few Southerners out there who turn their noses up at the very word. Add to that group the non-Southerners who don't know a persimmon from a grapefruit, and you have a recipe for unpopularity. </p><p>The persimmon cupcakes were a big hit, though, and no wonder: They were fluffy, rich in that orangey fall flavor and iced with cream cheese.</p><p>But this was different. This was to be a dark chocolate cake, everybody's favorite no matter their upbringing, rich with real cocoa and butter, sugar, flour and vanilla. </p><p>And sauerkraut. Not just a taste of sauerkraut, either, but an entire cup, pureed to mush. </p><p>I don't like sauerkraut, never have. Not since Lindley Park School in the early 1960s when it appeared every Tuesday in the school cafeteria on a plate beside weird little hot dogs called sausages. I remained a skinny child because of things like sauerkraut and Vienna sausages. </p><p>So, what in the world came over me to make a dark chocolate cake, full of cocoa and butter, sugar, flour and vanilla, and add to it something that still hits my olfactory glands and taste buds with horror?</p><p>It's January, remember. We do such things. </p><p>Because my blender is on its last blade, it took what seemed like a full hour to puree that sauerkraut. While it whirred and whirled and smoked, a sauery odor drifted from the blender and filled the kitchen. "It won't be so strong once I mix it in," I told myself, pinching my nose. </p><p>Meanwhile, the rick dark other stuff glistened in the mixing bowl. Once I added the kraut to the mixture, the glistening brown turned lumpyish and dull. One of my greatest pleasures of cake baking is licking the beaters. "OK," I said, licking. "It's not that bad." </p><p>For good measure, before I put it in the oven to bake, I shook in the final suggested "spice it up" ingredient: cayenne pepper. </p><p>An hour later, my house smelled like the Lindley Park School cafeteria. </p><p>"Can't you smell it?" I asked my husband. "No," he replied. </p><p>We decided not to tell our friends of the secret ingredient until after they'd eaten it, sort of like in "The Help." I'd just received the Christmas package from my German pen pal that very afternoon, so I suggested a descriptive name: Dark German Chocolate Bundt Cake Surprise. </p><p>"Whatever," said my husband.</p><p>I sprinkled snowy white confectioner's sugar on top of the cake for good measure. And off we went, our little sauerkraut and cayenne pepper cake beautifully displayed on a blue plate and snuggled into a cake carrier. </p><p>After a scrumptious dinner of chicken, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole and salad, we sliced pieces of cake and dolloped vanilla ice cream beside it. It reeked of sauerkraut. If smells were clouds, my head would have been encircled in this milky krauty fog, so strong I wasn't sure I'd be able to eat my one slice. Thank goodness for ice cream on the side. </p><p>"Pumpkin, squash, zucchini," our friends called out, trying to guess the secret ingredient. </p><p>"Think German," I hinted. </p><p>"Sauerkraut!" said one woman. "I've used it before." </p><p>Really? </p><p>Nobody guessed — or tasted — the cayenne pepper, though I did notice beads of sweat breaking out on my husband's forehead.</p><p>The secret ingredient revealed, conversation turned to other things. Nobody really cared. Shortly all plates were empty, every crumb of every slice of Dark German Chocolate Bundt Cake Surprise consumed. </p><p>Except by me. "Didn't you think the sauerkraut was way too strong?" I asked my husband on the way home.</p><p>"It tasted like chocolate cake to me," he said. </p><p>We opened the door to the overwhelmingly pungent smell of sauerkraut, and I was 10 years old again, rounding the corner to the school cafeteria, and suddenly stopping when the unmistakable odor hit my nostrils. Oh, no. It's Tuesday.</p><p>Now, when I so much as look at the leftover cake sitting on the counter, my nose begins to itch, and I'm sitting at the long Formica table beside my best friend, Nancy, and the teacher is saying, "Eat, Barbara."</p><p>The joke's on me. Everybody else loved it. I can't bear to look at it. What was I thinking? </p><p>Let this be your warning: beware the January doldrums. You may end up doing things you seriously regret. </p><p>Barbara Presnell is a poet and teacher of writing who lives in Lexington. Contact her at www.barbarapresnell.com.</p>